


Alan At Work: "Time's Up."

by cathouse_mary



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan's last collection of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alan At Work: "Time's Up."

Alan at Work: “Time’s up.”

His last appointment of the shift was likely to be unpleasant. It took lots of work for a soul to be deemed worthy of damnation before the body was even under the Shadow of Death, but there it was in black and white.

Arcangelo Raffaelo Ferro, a man of thirty-five years, scheduled to die at 1:01AM of multiple aneurysms related to tertiary syphilis.

It was not even midnight, and freezing cold with a thick fog.

Perhaps, Alan thought, it might not be a bad idea to… well… nudge things along.

Some travel was required to locate his collection, and it was quite ironic that Mr. Ferro was currently kneeling in a pew, rosary in hand, saying his duly assigned penance. Confession was allegedly good for the soul, or so mortals liked to think. In reality, true contrition and repentance that went deep enough to imprint itself on the soul was very rare. While he would have to wait to view Mr. Ferro’s soul, Alan doubted he’d find a dot of it.

He leaned on his scythe and studied the man. In a way, it looked as if the body should have stopped kicking around already. The skin appeared as waxen as a funereal effigy, the head topped by a wig of human hair of such healthy appearance that the face under it was a shock and a travesty. Fingers and limbs were visibly swollen, and thick cosmetics could not hide open sores on the cheeks or that he wore a prosthetic nose.

The priest exited the confessional, pausing and peering as if he could almost discern Alan’s presence before going on his way.

“Mr. Ferro? If you’ll excuse me, I’m Alan Humphries from the Grim Reaper Dispatch Society, and I’m here to end your life.” Alan suppressed a smile at the nasty turn that gave the man. “Your time’s up.”

My. He was sprightly for such a sick fellow. Why did they always run?

“Really, Mr. Ferro.” Alan followed him into the nighttime streets, perusing his entry. There were actually rows of hash-marks next to the Seven Deadly Sins and the Ten Commandments! “Your disposition’s already been decided, this is just a formality.”

“Con il nome di Cristo, vi abiurare!” Mr. Ferro scampered, wide-eyed and panting down the street. “Andate via, demone!”

“Now that’s just silly. If I were a demon, the safest place would be the holy ground that you just left!” Alan chided, “I’m a Reaper - Meititore dell’Anima - and I can go anywhere. Oh, please don’t fire that-“

The slug went right through his hand. Bugger, but that ITCHED. Alan peeled off the ruined glove and replaced it with one of his spares, the hole already closing over.

“Now, as I was saying… oh, really. You can stand there and shoot that thing at me all day and all night. It has less effect than a child’s popgun, and it has the effect of drawing the attention of the police-“

He was running again. Perhaps, Alan thought, he should not have mentioned the police.

“Mr. Ferro, do be reasonable!” Alan called after him, “Your time’s up!”

Mr. Ferro turned. Bugger. Now he’d have to replace his uniform. Bullet holes simply did not mend without pulling the fabric. Mr. Ferro turned to run, then bent, clutching at his chest.

Alan checked the completion time on the entry, noting with cheer that it had been moved up. No overtime for him tonight! “Good news, Mr. Ferro! Your time’s been moved up. What say we knock this one out?”

The reply Mr. Ferro gave was indistinct, and he was not so fast as he had been. The Shadow of Death was fully over him now, the body’s machinery preparing to cease and the scent of death steaming from his very pores. Mr. Ferro ducked into an alley, each breath punctuated by a grunt of pain. Alan simply placed himself at the end of the alley, waiting as Mr. Ferro came out, saw him and dropped to his knees.

“Angel of Death…” He coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, no. That’s actually Archangel Azrael. I’m just your general Reaper.” Alan opened the book. “Now, the disposition of your soul is predetermined, so this is just a formality. Your body is about to die, I will reap your soul, view your record, and confirm the judgement so that your soul can then be collected.”

“Good thing… I went…. to confession!” Ferro smiled. “Otherwise I’d be dancing with the Devil, eh?”

“Well, actually, confession and penance make no difference - it’s genuine contrition and repentance that is taken into consideration.” Alan stowed his book and summoned his scythe. “Confession has nothing to do with it. Of course, I have to view the record to determine whether or not that is present.”

The words hit Mr. Ferro like a blade. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“I mean, Mr. Ferro, that unless you truly have repented every act that earned you the disposition of predetermined damnation, you will be dancing with some very hot feet.” Alan hoisted his scythe. “Ready?”

It turned out that Mr. Ferro - body aside - was not. “Mercy! Give me mercy and I’ll give you whatever you want! Money - I have piles of it! I’ll give you women and girls until you’re up to your neck in cunts! Boys? You want boys? I’ll get you one for every day of the month.”

“Goodness, were I an angel that would not be very angelic, would it?” Alan followed as the man scuttled back on his knees, hands raised in supplication.

“I’ll dedicate the rest of my life to good works! I’ll… help orphans! Donate money to widows!” The blood became a thin stream. “The rest of my life, I swear it!"

“The rest of your life is less than five minutes.”

“Fuck you, you-” Mr. Ferro stopped, head tilting to the side and hand pressing to the side of his head in a gesture of puzzlement just before the blood exploded from his nose and mouth in a terminal gusher. “Glurt.”

“Mm. Oi. Oi, Guv.”

Alan turned to regard a hellion crouching in the shadows. The subadult demon was small, ribby and filthy, and was in turn regarding Ferro’s twitching not-yet corpse.

“Look. He’s a bad’un, right? I know you’ve got to collect him.” The hellion licked its lips. “But can I get just a little bit? A nibble?”

Alan could not keep the distaste for both the creature and the very idea off his face. “Do you have any idea what it takes to earn a predetermination of damnation? Can you imagine what he’d taste like?”

The demon-spawn stepped forward, mouth literally watering. “Don’t care a bit. Been so long without that he looks like a bacon butty with a basket of chips to me. Just a little nibble, guv! A little something before my belly strangles my backside!”

“Sorry, but there’s a Hell-Lord on his way to collect. You can take it up with him.”

There came a burst of flames from a crack in the pavement, and Alan squinted against the unsightly appearance of the new arrival before it resolved itself into form. The hellion screeched and shifted form into a rat, hiding behind a pile of windblown garbage. Demons in all forms were cannibalistic, and a ribby hellion would make a fine appetizer.

“Collecting.” The demon cocked its head. “Oh, he’s still twitching? Could you get on with it, Reaper?”

Alan checked the book. “Two more minutes.”

“Going to stand on formalities, aren’t you?” The Hell-Lord shifted into the form of a chimera. “Reapers were not so insolent back in the day.”

Alan took out his pocketwatch and counted down the seconds. “I’m a rather young Reaper, but I suppose things do change. Maybe back in the day, Hell-Lords didn’t get sent to pick up the take-away?”

The Hell-Lord sprouted a profusion of teeth. “It’s been a long time since I had a nice young-“

Mr. Ferro kicked one more time, and it was done. “Pardon me.”

Alan buried the scythe, giving it a little twist. The record popped free and Alan gave it all possible consideration. There was no repentance, no contrition, no empathy, no understanding for the suffering he’d caused others whether strangers, enemies, associates, or his own kin. He’d been raised by a loving family, but had followed his own greed into a life of crime.

“Judgement confirmed. No further comments.” Alan collected the soul, fighting it into a sack and tying the neck shut. “Soul of Ferro, Arcangelo R. Sign here.”

The Hell-Lord folded all of its arms but one. “I’m not signing anything, clerk. Hand over the property.”

Alan drew back with the soul struggling in the sack. “No signature, no soul. I’m not going to sit there and have you bring management down on me for not delivering.”

“Guv, if you won’t be handing him over… I mean, they’d hardly notice, right.” The hellion was salivating. “Now that he’s out, he smells like Christmas dinner. Have pity, guv!”

Alan appeared to consider. “You know, you’re right. All I have to bring back is the record and my job’s done. I don’t have to answer to the Princes of Hell.” He tugged at the tie on the sack. “Hunker down, brace up, and open wide - they come out fast!”

“Ohguvloveyouforever!” The hellion went to all fours, claws digging into the stone and mouth opening like a coal-bin door. “Ready!”

The Hell-Lord evidently reconsidered having to explain this to his own bosses, plucking the pen up in a tentacle and signing on the line. “There. Give it here.”

Alan sighed. “Sorry, Beastie. Rules are rules.”

The soul screamed faintly as the Hell-Lord took the bag and disappeared with the sound and smell of cataclysmic flatulence. Whoof. Eyewatering.

The hellion gave itself a scratching and a shake, then looked plaintively at Alan. “Could you spare enough for a bacon butty and some chips, then?”

Alan sighed and searched his pockets. “Will that really content you as much as a soul?”

The hellion grinned. “Any of us ever tell you what souls taste like?”

~End


End file.
